The Edge of Ruin

Chapter 3: Come Back With a Warrant

The basement of The Cincinnati was dark and dingy, clogged with the scent of sweat and the heat of a hundred bodies. Taylor had been coming here since he was fourteen, but was still not accustomed to the grating shrieks of the patrons and the swell of the crowd as it pushed in around him.

The man he was facing off against today was far larger than he was, as they usually were, but Taylor was light on his feet. He managed to get a hit under his opponent's defenses and into the soft of his side, knocking him backwards with a hand clutched to his ribs. After that, Taylor made quick work of him.

Roughly half the crowd cheered for him – those who had bet on him – and the other half sent him snide sneers as they forked over what they had lost.

He wasn't sure why they were so surprised. Regulars at The Cincinnati were well aware that he won more than he lost these days, so he couldn't fathom why anyone still bet against him. Edgar tossed a towel his way, and he gratefully used it to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

He tugged it over his shoulders, clasping the hand that Edgar held out to him with a grin. The burly older man was smiling widely, eyes alight with another victory under his belt.

"You did well," he said, reaching into his tattered coat pocket. "Keep this up for another few weeks and we can get you into the Lowers."

He smacked a wad of cash into Taylor's waiting hand, clapping him once more on the shoulder before turning away to speak to another patron. Taylor weighed up the cash before tucking it away into his pocket and making his way through the crowd to the back rooms. The next fight would be starting soon, and he didn't like to be in the crowd when one was on.

The Cincinnati was a bar on the far side of town, known to the gentler folk for its tepid beer and greasy food, and to those less gentle for its basement levels. Fight nights were not the only things the basements hosted, but they were what Taylor had acquainted himself with for the last seven years. He'd found them by accident when he was fourteen, dragged to the bar with his father and left with nothing better to do while the man drank himself into a stupor. He'd come to watch the fights every fight night since, studying the fighters and patrons alike. Edgar had found him in the crowd when he was sixteen, and the rest was history.

It was fortunate that he had some combat experience under his belt, as he'd begun to Dream only a year later. He and Alex hadn't been close before they'd met each other in Erebos – their different social circles at school had kept them mostly separate – but once they'd realised what was happening to them, they'd become inseparable.

The back rooms of the basement levels were in even worse shape than the basements themselves. They did have showers, and a rudimentary locker system for the fighters, but nobody was stupid enough to actually use either. Instead, Taylor made his way to the back of the room where he'd found a small hidey-hole behind an old cabinet when he was younger. His satchel was tucked inside, safe and secure from questing fingers.

Just as he was tugging a shirt over his head, his phone began to ring. A close-up of Alex's face flashed on the screen, a picture she'd taken with the phone very close to her nose and her eyes squinted inwards – "so I can watch if you get yourself into any trouble without me," she'd said.

"Alphabet," he said in lieu of greeting, holding the phone up to his ear with his shoulder while he zipped his bag up. "What's the haps, yo? Or whatever they're saying these days."

"You know very well they aren't saying anything of the sort," Alex replied wryly. "And where are you? It's noisy back there."

Taylor winced as the crowd outside decided to cheer very loudly at that instant, crashes coming from inside the ring as another opponent was obliterated.